


In the Dark, In my Heart

by fors_manus



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 05:32:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fors_manus/pseuds/fors_manus
Summary: okay so this has views which is shocking but just an fyi this is a just a sketch for a friend to read since we don't have any other way of contacting one another, comments would be appreciated but omg i promise i'll get this done and uploaded asap <3





	

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this has views which is shocking but just an fyi this is a just a sketch for a friend to read since we don't have any other way of contacting one another, comments would be appreciated but omg i promise i'll get this done and uploaded asap <3

“I don’t dance,” is the first thing that comes out of Bruce’s mouth when Clark Kent extended his hand with a shining smile. With a chuckle, the man in front of him easily responded, “Now even you know that’s a lie, Mr. Womanizer and all that.”

Bruce sighed and took a sip of his wine, glad for the fact that Alfred wasn’t in the room to include a sly remark as he glared over the glass. “Brucie dances, I don’t,” he retorted back, tilting his head as the song on Clark’s playlist switched over to a song that he once again, did not recognize.

By now at least a year had passed since Clark Kent returned from the grave, and it’s taken Bruce as least half that time to even think about accepting the idea of being forgiven for being the reason he was there in the first place. It wasn’t easy of course, to have times in his day when he would come home from Wayne Enterprises only to see a very much alive and once despised Kryptonian curled up on the couch with a book in hand, or sitting on a bartender stool eating Bruce’s breakfast and laughing at one of Alfred’s dry jokes in the midday hours.

Especially since his odd attachment with staying at the Wayne Manor seemed to increase from only an hour a day to several nights a week.

He had both Diana and Alfred to thank for putting up with his mood swings when Clark’s existence became more of a dark reminder of his mistakes than a miracle. If either of them knew how close he was to ending his life, an inch away from destroying the most alien and yet most human being he had ever encountered. Jesus, what would they think of him? Heaven forbid Lois especially.

Naturally after the funeral ceremony, Bruce decided to keep an eye on Martha Wayne as the months went by and once soft soil began to harden over. The urge to tell her who he was, who her son knew him as, was almost deafening to him as time passed. It was only when he walked up creaking wooden steps with peeled white paint, and knocked upon a rattling screen door that Bruce felt like he had finally crossed one of few peaceful bridges as Ms. Kent met him with frail dark eyes.

“Ms. Kent,” he had greeted her slowly, the screen door opening as the mother of the child she lost stepped outside onto the porch. “I’m a friend of your sons,” was all Bruce said, dressed up in a dark suit with baggy eyes and disheveled hair. And despite this, and despite all that happened not too long ago, Martha Kent had smiled at him before wrapping her arms around his shoulders into a hug. From then on ensuring Ms. Kent’s life became easier as she continued to invite him for dinner, for talks, for company. Surrounded by pictures on the wall which laid out the timeline of the man he took part in killing.

And then he came back, and so there was no excuse for him to step foot in a house that never should have been open to him in the first place. Alfred was more than displeased when he found this out of course, and would bring up the ringing telephone and left voice mails any chance he could when the Dark Knight would return home. Eventually Bruce replied with him being perfectly capable of heating up a meal if the butler himself wanted to visit the farm so badly. Alfred had scowled at that. Luckily this was before Diana Prince made the decision to move into the Manor, which gave Alfred a distraction much to Bruce’s so called luck.

The Batman was known to pent down in the Batcave for days or weeks on end, the typical excuse being him following a new case or designing another piece of utility equipment for his belt. Company came and went during those times, whether Bruce noticed it or not was never a topic of conversation between the three of them.

“Sulking,” is what Alfred would call this period as he would clean away mugs of washed down coffee and barely touched food with a tut on the edge of his tongue.

“Isolating,” is what Diana had said as she stood in front of the costume that ruled Bruce’s nightmares and yet his fighting spirit, though she did not say so accusingly; more as a fact that the Batman refused to comment on.

“Brooding,” is what Clark Kent said with a delicate smile, as he pushed a slightly golden crusted apple sugared pie in front of Bruce’s sight of vision wearing a simple plaid shirt, khaki pants and no glasses.


End file.
